by Jeff Strand
The one that sticks out most in my memory was American History, as substitute-taught one sunny day of our junior year by Ms. Rowe. She gave us the usual spiel about how having a substitute didn’t mean it was going to be free time, and instructed us to open to the current lesson. Now, I don’t remember the names of all the students who were involved, and no, I didn’t keep the lists we made. I don’t know exactly who said what in the following bit, and I don’t particularly want to be sued by them anyway, so the names are fake, and the quotes may not be exact. Of course, that’s true for most of the book—you don’t think I remembered all of those times in the first date saga, do you? Bear with me.
The lesson had begun. One of our partners in crime, Frank, raised his hand. “I have a question about John Tyler.”
“Yes?”
“I know it’s not going to be on the test, but what state was he governor of before he became president?”
Ms. Rowe smiled, thrilled that a student would care about something like that if it weren’t going to be on the test. “Virginia.” This woman knew her stuff.
Eddie raised his hand and was called on. “Isn’t the same true of Thomas Jefferson and James Monroe?”
Ms. Rowe blinked, a bit surprised. “Yes, it is. Well, you students are certainly up on this material.”
Susan raised her hand. “Ms. Rowe, do you think that all the best presidents were governors of Virginia?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Ms. Rowe. “Abraham Lincoln was never a governor at all.”
“I think the whole Virginia debate is ridiculous,” said Tracy, reading directly from her index card and thus costing her a position on our list for next time. “Since Grover Cleveland was our best president, and he governed New York, the whole discussion is moot.”
The success of Operation: Sub Freakout at this point rested on either the teacher remaining silent and letting the conversation flow, or else the ability of our peers to adapt their lines to what the teacher had to say. In this case, it was the former.
“I totally disagree with your assessment of Cleveland,” said Buzz. “The man served as both our twenty-second and twenty-fourth president, with a gap in-between for Benjamin Harrison to serve. Anyone who failed to be re-elected after his first term clearly wasn’t serving the public interest well enough.”
“But he was re-elected in 1893,” protested Gerda, “meaning that after time to reflect, the public realized that his contributions were very strong, including a veto of many pension raids on the Treasury and an enlargement of the civil service.”
At this point, some twit started giggling. But Ms. Rowe was baffled enough at this point that she didn’t pay any attention.
Albert spoke up. “Plus, even though he was defeated by Harrison in the 1888 election, his popular vote was higher, which to me signifies a major weakness in our political system.”
Now it was time for Travis and I to get into it. “You people have no clue what you’re talking about,” I said. “The only president who ever did anything for this country worth writing about was Benjamin Harrison’s father, William Henry Harrison.”
“I just can’t agree with that asinine line of thinking,” Travis told me. “The man served for only thirty-one days before he died of pneumonia.”
“So? Think of all the other accomplishments that have been made in thirty-one days. That’s an entire month, you know.”
“I’ll grant you that portion of the argument, but William Henry Harrison simply didn’t do enough to justify your almost religious admiration. Why don’t you just go form your Bill Harrison cult and quit pestering the rest of us with your poorly-defended ideas.”
“He ran for office with the slogan ‘a log cabin and hard cider.’ That is poetry! That says it all. Once you’ve heard that, nothing else matters.”
“The man was a blabbermouth! His was the longest inauguration speech in history! It lasted nearly two hours, and was 8,445 words long! And to make things worse, it was a chilly day when he gave it, forcing the poor commoners to stand outside freezing while he yammered on and on. Do you know why he caught pneumonia? Because of being out there in the cold blah blah blah-ing everyone to death! He was a lousy president!”
“He was the greatest man who ever lived!” I slammed my history book shut to make my point, then Travis and I both looked at Ms. Rowe, expectantly.
There was a long pause. Then Ms. Rowe smiled. “April Fool’s in February, right?”
Incidentally, both Travis and I aced the test. All our preparation for this prank turned out to be educational, damn it.
* * *
It wasn’t until my junior year of high school that I truly became a man, and got into my first real fight. Now, I’d wrestled with Travis on countless occasions, but the first fight where I stood to suffer actual bodily harm and/or death was at the hands of Kirk “Big Disgusting Nasty-Smelling Prick” Tonnew.
To get an accurate mental picture of Kirk, first envision Hollywood sensation Mel Gibson. Now, change that mental picture to an incredibly ugly version of Mel Gibson. Don’t be stingy with the acne. Give him a facial expression refreshingly free of intelligence, and one continuous eyebrow. Make the teeth crooked with a coating of yellow. Add a generous helping of flab on the arms, legs, and belly. Insert a voice that feels like the word “Duh” should precede every sentence, and you’ve got Kirk.
He was universally gross, sort of a bulky version of that dweeby little kid you may have known who ate bugs for attention. If any scientists were interested in studying how saliva begins the process of food digestion before swallowing, they could have gotten all the research material they needed just by sitting near Kirk at lunch. One time I saw him eat an apple with a worm in it. Admittedly, he did avoid the worm, but I really don’t think he was trying very hard. He was a living, breathing faux pas.
Kirk and I never really crossed paths during my first couple years in high school. I’d seen him beat up several kids for such offenses as breathing oxygen he’d claimed for himself, but I kept my distance and he never went out of his way to bother me.
Anyway, my encounter with Kirk took place on a Friday right after the final bell, with me at my locker and Travis in detention for throwing a spitball that almost knocked a student unconscious. In Travis’ defense, the student was picking on Michelle, who had become an okay friend of ours after The Date. Travis had soaked a big wad of toilet paper in the bathroom sink, then hurled it across the hall at him, smacking the guy right between the eyes and causing him to stagger backward against a garbage can, fall, and hit his head on the floor.
There I was, trying to decide if I actually wanted to take any education-related materials home with me or just pass on any personal growth for the weekend, when I smelled Kirk’s approach. He leaned against the locker next to mine and glared at me.
I gave him a nod of greeting and pulled my Algebra II: The Sequel book off the top shelf, revealing a forgotten banana that had given up every last gasp of its yellow appearance. I considered offering it to Kirk, but wisely changed my mind.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, Kirk folded his arms and said “So?”
“Hmmm?” I said, not wanting to top his syllable usage and have him think I was showing off.
“So what’s your problem?”
I had the usual problems of a high school student, but none of them seemed directly related to the individual next to me. “I don’t have a problem,” I told him.
“That’s not what I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
“I heard that you’ve been talking about me.”
I know I’ve said some unflattering things about Kirk these past couple of pages, but it’s the truth when I tell you that I hadn’t been talking about him. Okay, maybe a witty comment to Travis every now and then, but nothing to anybody who would have turned me in, and nothing within at least the past three or four months.
I shrugged. “Wasn’t me.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
<
br /> Since the conversation seemed to have lapped itself, I turned to face him. “What did you hear?”
“I heard that you said I smelled like a decomposing buffalo butt.”
While my own highbrow, genteel sense of humor would never allow me to use an insult such as that, I wasn’t able to stifle my laugh in time. I quickly tried to change my expression of amusement into one of outrage. “I never said that,” I insisted. “Who said I—?”
WHAM!!!
One thing I’ve noticed about most high school fights is that the participants spend a good chunk of time taunting each other, a sort of foreplay before the actual combat begins. The conversation usually goes something like this:
“I’m gonna kick your ass!”
“Yeah? Come on!”
“I am! I’m gonna kick your ass!”
“Let’s go!”
[ One participant shoves the other. ]
“That’s it, I’m gonna kick your ass!”
“Bring it on, then!”
Of course, what they’re really thinking is “Oh jeez, if I actually get hit it’s gonna hurt and I’m gonna look stupid in front of this huge crowd that has gathered! If I can just keep the dialogue going long enough for a teacher to show up, I won’t have to actually fight, and I can tell everyone how I would have kicked his ass if we hadn’t been stopped.”
I found it very unfair that Kirk punched me in the gut without giving me a chance to talk until a teacher arrived.
Because of my policy of honesty in reporting, I’m not even going to pretend I did anything but drop straight to the floor, moaning and clutching my stomach. I thought of several things to say to him, but they were all variations of “Ow!”
“I don’t like people talking about me when I’m not around!” Kirk informed me, apparently to make sure I hadn’t mistaken his punch for one of encouragement.
Then he kicked me in the face, leaving a huge red mark and traces of the gum that was stuck to the bottom of his shoe. I heard a girl gasp. Somebody else laughed.
Since I was long out of my Really Stupid Phase, this wasn’t the kind of laughter I wanted to hear. Now, I could have just lay there on the floor, maybe gotten kicked a couple more times, and let the whole ugly situation run its course. But I’ve never been a coward (except, of course, where women are concerned—then it’s bock, bock, bock city), and I didn’t want people seeing me go out with no dignity. I struggled to my feet, and returned my attention to my locker.
Kirk stood there, watching me. So did the other thirty people in the hall, none of whom were adults in positions of fight-ceasing authority.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Kirk clenching his fist again. It looked like the bottom was going to drop out of my dignity bucket in about two seconds.
And then, without even thinking about it, I turned and took a swing at his face.
I’ve never won the lottery. I’ve never been the eighth caller when a radio DJ asks a question about a crappy song that I can answer. My McDonald’s game pieces always say “Sorry...try again.”
But I’ll be damned if the one serious punch I had ever thrown in my life didn’t connect perfectly. Kirk’s head rocketed back, he made a noise that sounded like “Unnnghhh,” then he dropped to the floor with all the grace of an intoxicated cripple. And didn’t move.
A collective gasp ran through the hallway. My own contribution to this gasp was substantial.
What I really wanted to do at this point was glare at all the spectators and snarl “Okay, anybody else want some?” But I’d used up the last of my machismo with the punch, and my hand was hurting bad enough that my voice would have carried an unintimidating squeak.
Then somebody began to applaud. Somebody else joined in, then everyone in the hallway was applauding and whistling and cheering. Irony being such a good friend of mine, this noise attracted a teacher, and I was sent to the principal’s office and suspended from school for three days.
And that’s how I became cool.
* * *
“This isn’t fair,” said Travis, seated on the exercise bicycle in my garage. It was a week later. “I knocked Jerry out with a giant spitball to defend Michelle and nobody thinks I’m cool.”
“It has something to do with weapon choice,” I told him as I sat peeling the cover off a softball. “Bare fists versus toilet paper and water. Besides, you didn’t knock Jerry out, you almost knocked him out. There was actual unconsciousness from my punch.”
“Well whoop-dee-yabba-dabba-doo.”
“Nobody’s ever going to think you’re as cool as me if you say stuff like whoop-dee-yabba-dabba-doo.”
The door to the kitchen opened, and my dad poked his head in the garage that we were supposed to be cleaning. “You two making any progress?”
We both nodded.
“I’m not paying you by the hour, so I’d advise you to get moving.”
We both nodded.
“I want this place cleaned out by dinner.”
We both nodded. My dad gave us the helpless look of somebody who knew darn well that the garage wasn’t going to be anywhere near clean by dinner, then left.
“I’d think you’d be happy,” I said to Travis. “At least now you’re cool by proximity.” I got the softball cover completely off, then began to tear off the sticky thread surrounding the cork center. It just seemed like an important thing to do.
“How many women have thrown themselves at you?” Travis asked, his voice oozing sarcasm like a slug oozes slug ooze.
“A couple dozen. I had to spray three of them with mace or they would’ve taken me right there in the hallway. Mrs. Taylor said she’d trade me an ‘A’ in history for a naked spanking.”
Actually, while numerous guys had congratulated me on my first day back at school, the only female attention I received was from a sensationally attractive blonde, who said “Hi” to me in the cafeteria and made a quick exit after I started choking on my Jell-O.
“It’s not that big of a deal anyway,” Travis remarked, getting off the bicycle. “I hear Kirk’s a total wimp. If I could afford a strong enough gas mask, I would’ve knocked him out a long time ago.”
“Wanna try now?” asked the total wimp standing in my driveway.
My first thought was “Whoopsie!” but fortunately I didn’t verbalize it. Kirk walked toward us, and my mind ran through some available options: Sprint to safety inside the house, try to pull down the garage door before he reached us, or let out a long piercing shriek not unlike that of a woman.
However, none of those seemed manly enough to fit with my newly gained coolness, so I cocked back my arm and prepared to throw the violated softball at him. “Get off my property,” I demanded.
“It’s okay,” said Kirk. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“You couldn’t anyway,” Travis pointed out, an act that nearly got him a violated softball in the mouth.
“What do you want?” I asked.
Kirk reached into his pocket and took out a crumpled piece of paper. “I saw this at school, and thought it sounded like something you might be interested in,” he said, looking at the ground. “You may have already seen it, but I wasn’t sure.”
I went over and took the paper from him. I unfolded it and strained to read the terrible handwriting. It took me a couple of moments to figure out what it said, but suddenly the message became clear:
Dear Seth, I’m going to break your face.
Kirk punched me in the nose. I went down like a boneless elderly woman with motion sickness. The sweet crimson fluid of life trickled from my nostrils as I lay on the concrete and felt searing bolts of pain do-si-do around my head.
“Mess with me again,” said Kirk, “and I’ll—”
Kirk’s threat was cut short as an old bicycle tire (an unwieldy weapon, but the most readily available thing for Travis to grab) struck him in the side of the head. He went down like a woodpecker-savaged stilt walker with an inner ear infection.
After a moment to savor the
agony, Kirk got back up and raised his fists. Travis held the tire in front of him for protection. Kirk hesitated then took off running out of our garage and off into the afternoon sunlight.
And that’s how Travis became cool, too.
Chapter Seven
“Vague But Important Life Decisions”
Ah, high school graduation, that glorious time of year when you get to hear the question “So what are you going to do with your life?” over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over...
We sat in the gymnasium, listening to the keynote speaker as we silently cursed the teachers who’d made us remove the silly adornments from our caps (though Travis snuck through with a contraband pom-pom). The keynote speaker, a simple farmer who’d become a millionaire through the dairy business, spoke. Slowly. In. A. Monotone. So. Each. Word. Seemed. To. Be. Its. Own. Sentence. His speech consisted of an extended metaphor relating our lives to milking a cow, something about squeezing all the opportunities out of the udder of society. It was really gross, but before I could get too deeply involved in his message I was visited by an angel.
“Yo,” said the angel, floating in front of me and draped in white sheets that were blowing in a non-existent breeze. He was lugging around a golden harp with “Property of God” engraved on the side.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m a non-denominational religious figure, here to talk to you about what you’re going to do with your life.”
“Cool.”
The angel straightened his halo. “So, here you are, graduating from high school. What’s next on your agenda? College, I assume.”
“Yeah. Travis and I are both going to TPU.”
